Warden's Oath
by keep-me-alone
Summary: This story loosely follows the plot of Dragon Age Origins although the scenes are adapted to suit Slate the hero. .Still in progress, so I don't have a complete pairing list or character list Alistar/OC
1. Prologue

The clock had just struck twelve when Slate was roughly shaken awake. They opened their eyes slowly, mumbling incoherently. They hadn't been asleep for very long, but they were not at all pleased about being woken up like this. There was an unpleasant churning in Slate's stomach. The room was dark and blurred, foggy and distant. Slate couldn't tell whether they were awake or dreaming.

"It is time, Slate," a deep male voice said. Slate squinted through darkness trying to identify the voice. There were four men at their bedside. Still groggy, Slate shook their head yanking the covers back up. This was too weird even for Slate; they were going back to bed. One of the men snickered. Slate was shaken even more violently. They groaned loudly. "Slate you must come, your harrowing is upon you," the voice said sternly. The pieces began falling into place as Slate slowly removed the covers from their face. In the darkness they could just discern that the person shaking them was indeed First Enchanter Irving. The three hulking men behind him must be Templars then. Slate slowly sat up. They ignored Irving's disapproving stare. "Hurry up."

Slate slid off their bed and two of the Templars promptly grabbed Slate's arms. Slate bridled at the intrusion into their personal space, but said nothing. Irving and the other Templar, who Slate assumed was Gregoir, began marching through the darkness. The Templar's holding Slate walked very quickly, almost dragging them along. Slate was not fast in general and the tower was almost pitch black, causing them to stumble every couple of steps. The stairs were even more of a trial. Of course there had to be so many of them. Slate chewed on the inside of their cheek, highly irritated with the whole ordeal. They still hadn't quite processed that what they were approaching was their actual harrowing. Slate felt like they were sleep walking, wanting nothing more than to lie down again. The tower was frigid and Slate's toes were almost numb. As they began to wake up more, Slate focused on these physical discomforts. It was easier than facing the reality of this long walk. The metallic sounds of Templar armour. The slap of Slate's feet on stone. The chill in the air. Other things Slate tried their best to ignore: their growing sense of unease, the tower's gloom, the feeling of being watched, the Templar's tight grip on their arms. Slate was grateful that the Templar's wore gloves. They didn't think they would have been able to stand this much contact without some kind of barrier.

Slate was dragged up another set of endless stairs, internally cursing every Templar they'd ever met and their impatience and rudeness. The stairs ended suddenly and if not for the Templars secure grip, Slate would have fallen. The room the company had entered was enormous. The wind howled outside and Slate assumed they had reached the top of the tower. This room was slightly warmer than the hallways, but not by much. It was lit by a circle of flickering torches. In the centre a bowl full of a luminous blue liquid swirled. Lyrium, from the look and way it inexorably dragged Slate's essence towards it. They shivered and the Templar's released them, a hand on their back propelling them into the circle. The room echoed with a heavy thump. The door was barred, escape now impossible. The Templar's returned to stand behind Slate as Irving and Gregoir came to stand in front of them. The nape of Slate's neck prickled with the Templar's so close. Something in Slate was screaming of danger, warning them to run while they could. Their heart began to pump faster, sweat slicking their palms. This was really it. Nausea crept through them as Irving began to speak solemnly, his face made eerie in the torchlight.

"Apprentice Slate Lenever, the moment of your harrowing is upon you. You will be sent into the fade to face whatever demon you find there and if you are successful in defeating it you will return a mage of The Circle. If you fail your life is forfeit. Are you ready to proceed?"

Slate considered asking for an alternative, but as much as they struggled to admit it to themself, they knew there wasn't one. This was it. The harrowing was happening. Slate could feel their heart pounding in their chest as they replied, barely breathing.

"I am ready."

"Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you." Irving moved around the basin of lyrium so that they stood on the same side. He dipped his fingers into the basin, dotted Slate's forehead, cheeks, then drew a line down their mouth. Slate found, surprised, that they didn't mind the contact, intimate and personal as it was.

"Look into the basin," Irving commanded. Puzzled, Slate obeyed. They glanced back at Irvin who scowled in return. "More closely." Slate bent over the glowing lyrium. They only saw their reflection, short brown hair, pale skin, the dark circles beneath their eyes, all with a strange cast because of the light, but that wasn't unusual. Slate wondered what they were supposed to be looking for. They leaned even closer. They saw something, a shadow maybe. Slate had just enough time to wonder if that was it before their head was thrust into the lyrium. Reflexively Slate struggled, inhaled the lyrium. They fell unconscious, Gregoir grabbing their limp body before it could crash to the floor. The harrowing had begun.


	2. Harrowing

Slate opened their eyes and blinked hard, trying to clear their vision. They blinked again, with no success. The world around them was shadowy and insubstantial, moving, swaying. It made Slate sick. Slate closed their eyes, felt the ground drop from under them. Terrified of the darkness they'd been swallowed by, Slate opened their eyes immediately. They were still standing in the same spot. Jarred by the experience and curious now, Slate stomped their foot. They couldn't feel the connection between themself and the ground. It was unsettling. It was although their tether to the earth had been cut from them, leaving them free to drift and fly where they might. Although they weren't at all sure they liked this feeling, Slate started forward.

Details made themselves clear as Slate progressed. The ground was a muddy brown colour that ascended into cruel spires in places. It was uneven and twisted, forcing Slate to follow the path, surrounded on either side by nothingness. A huge statue loomed ahead of Slate and they stopped, feeling dizzy just looking at it. Its tentacles seemed to move, churning the air like a desperate swimmer. Static flashed across Slate's vision and they forced themself to look down.

"What was I doing here again?" Slate wondered. They tried to think, but memory was so foggy. There was something important they were supposed to do, but the task slipped farther and farther away from memory the more Slate tried to access it. The incorporeal land, the isolation from everything, including feeling, was this death? The idea didn't seem quite right; Slate tried it again. "Am I dead?" They asked loudly.

"No, you aren't dead." The voice made Slate jump nearly out of their skin. Struck by a feeling similar to lightning, heart pounding painfully hard, Slate looked back at the statue reflexively. The noise had come from there. Slate exhaled, seeing the man sitting under the statue. For a moment, they had been afraid that the statue itself was speaking.

"Where am I?" They asked.

"This is your home," the man said gently. Slate blinked and realized that he was right. They were standing in the house they had grown up in before the Circle had taken them. "I'm so glad you've returned to me Slate." Slate closed their eyes, they couldn't quite place this man. They knew him of course, but from where?

"I-I'm sorry I don't remember you," Slate said regretfully.

"Of course you do," the man chided her, "I'm your husband. We've been married for almost two years now." Slate scowled, shaking their head.

"I still don't remember you," Slate protested, more forcefully. The man's shoulders sagged as he looked at the floor.

"You know it really hurts my feelings when you talk to me that way."

"I'm sorry," Slate mumbled, looking at the floor.

"It's alright dear. I still love you. I will love you no matter how you treat me. I can't help myself." Slate felt sick, guilty. They'd been so rude to their husband who only wanted to love them. Their eyes burned. They couldn't accept love from anyone, not even the love of their life, the man who had always been there for them, no matter what. How long had they been pushing him away like this? He was probably ready to leave them for it. But he had said he couldn't so obviously Slate was doing something cruel to keep him here. They should just let him go probably. It was wrong of Slate to make him stay.

"I'm sorry," Slate whispered, looking at the floor. "I- I love you too." Slate's husband gripped their chin, drawing their faces together.

"I know," he said huskily. He pressed his lips to Slate's who melted into his embrace, suddenly exhausted. Slate was still uneasy, but their overwhelming guilt and weariness wasn't to be ignored. "Come to bed little miss, while the children still sleep." Slate's eyes, which had been drifting shut, snapped open, huge and blue in their pale face. They tore away from the person holding them.

"Miss?" Slate asked shrilly, "children? You don't know me at all do you?" Their chest was heaving. "This is a dream isn't it? I know where I am." Their voice was ringing and powerful as they realized the truth. "This is the Fade and you are not my husband. You're a demon and I will not be tempted by you." The house melted around the pair and the Fade, as Slate had first seen it, was visible again. The man however, was nothing of the sort. Slate recognized him as a desire demon, all purple skin and lovely breasts. A demon inclined to present people with their most sincere fantasies and feed off of them as they dreamt. Slate shook, realizing how close they had been to death.

"Another meal lost," the demon scoffed silkily, "it seems I must work on my technique. Very well then mortal, you shall have your life it seems." The demon glared at Slate before vanishing with a flash of light.

Slate could see the edges of the landscape collapsing, falling into nothing, speeding towards them. Slate screamed, to face death after this trial was unjust. They had tried so very hard. Slate thought that they had succeeded. Then the ground had dropped from under them and Slate was plummeting through darkness, still screaming, heart ready to burst. And they were falling… falling… falling… into nothing.

Everything was dark. Slate moaned, flailing at the hands touching them, trying to knock them away. They mumbled incoherently, chest heaving.

"Be calm Slate," a familiar voice, "your trial is done." The voice was fading now. "And when you rise it will be as a mage of the Circle. It is done."

Irving… Slate realized; it was their last thought before sinking into the soft, welcome darkness of sleep.


	3. Jowan

Slate opened their eyes slowly and groaned loudly. Their head was throbbing violently. Everything was sore. They wondered if there had been an accident, possibly involving being trampled by several horses. Slate jammed their face back into the pillow. If no one was demanding they get out of bed then they had no intention to.

"Are you awake, Slate?" Slate growled into their pillow without looking up. "How are you?"

"Tired," they grunted.

"They brought you in this morning. You looked half dead. I was worried about you." Slate raised their head to glare. It was Jowan of course.

"I'm fine," Slate muttered, swinging their legs off the edge of the bed, "just tired. Let me get dressed." Slate found to their surprise, that someone had left a set of mages robes neatly folded on their dresser. It was likely Irving. Slate pulled the robes on, trying not to look at themself as they did so. Slate gave the robe a hard tug, hating how it emphasized their figure. It clung uncomfortably to their hips and breasts. Slate yanked it again, without success. They would have to find a larger one somewhere. On a woman the fit would have been perfect, but Slate always preferred to hide in their clothes, something that their teacher, Irving often commented on. If this was indeed his doing, it was a less than subtle sign of disapproval. Slate considered wearing their apprentice robes to spite him, but people would stare and ask questions. So they left their oversized robes on the bed, giving them a longing stare before going to find Jowan again.

He was waiting in the corridor. Slate sighed through their nose before approaching him.

"What was it that you wanted then, Jowan?" They asked. Jowan turned, arms folded.

"So it's true, you're a full blown mage now." His hand tightened on his arm. "They aren't going to make _me_ a mage. I just know it." Slate tilted their head, looking at Jowan sympathetically.

"I'm sure they will Jowan, in their own time. Who knows, they could take you tomorrow." Slate suggested softly.

"They won't," he insisted stubbornly, "I know they won't. I've been here longer than you. They're going to make me Tranquil." He was whining, but Slate understood. As an apprentice there was always that fear. The fear that you would be found dangerous or incompetent and Tranquility would be forced upon you. It severed a mage's connection to the Fade, their emotions, made them dull and glazed. Most did not consider the Tranquil truly people.

"Jowan, they don't have any reason to make you Tranquil." Jowan shifted, crossing his arms more tightly. "Unless of course they do," Slate suggested.

They hadn't known Jowan long enough to make that kind of call. Of course they'd been at the Circle together for years, but they hadn't been even remotely close until recently. Slate had a tendency to drift around to different people, usually forming an insubstantial bond before moving on to new groups. The closest thing they had to a real friend was Irving, although that was questionable as well, Slate being his apprentice.

"There's a rumour going around that I've been practicing blood magic." Jowan admitted uncomfortably.

"Maker's breath, Jowan," Slate cursed, "It's not true is it?"

"Of course not," he said loudly, "the chantry is overreacting, as usual." He continued in a quieter tone. "I've seen the papers Slate; they're going to make me Tranquil. I- I have a plan." Slate inhaled sharply, unsure of whether they wanted to hear what he had to say. "I'm going to destroy my phylactery so they can't use my blood to track me. Then I'm going to escape from this place. You'll help me won't you? You can come with me too! We can be free!"

Slate shook their head, expression sad and grim. "I can't Jowan. You know I can't." Slate shot a glare at an apprentice lingering nearby. "Don't you have lessons to attend?" They snapped. The apprentice scurried off, looking terrified. In a less serious situation, Slate would've felt extremely smug at the apprentice's reaction. "Look, if you're caught they _will kill you,_ Jowan and they _will_ catch you, Irving knows everything that goes on here. You have no idea who he has working for him. I'm his _apprentice_ , Jowan, why would you tell me this?" Slate rubbed their temples, frustrated at their impossible situation.

"I- I thought we were friends." Jowan said softly.

"Jowan, I like you," a passive correction, the word 'friend' was far too strong an association for Slate's taste. "But this is insane. You're going to be killed. Don't do this."

"You won't tell will you? I'm just- I just want to stay me. I can't be one of them. I just- I just want to live." Jowan sounded like he was about to cry. Slate was deeply uncomfortable. Helping Jowan was an impossibility, but staying silent was also a deception. Slate was unsure of their options, betraying Jowan to Irving would be wrong, they were sure, but Irving had always been fair and he would perhaps know how to handle this situation.

"We should tell Irving of this," Slate suggested gently, "he can help you, Jowan."

"Maybe if he were the only one concerned, but the Templars will never accept a fate for me other than Tranquility," Jowan sounded defeated. "If you will not help me then at least promise me you won't betray me."

"I will not tell anyone unless I am forced to it," Slate promised, it was the best they could do.

"That will have to be enough, I guess." Jowan replied, "by the way the First Enchanter was looking for you earlier."

"Irving was looking for me?" Slate asked sharply, "when?"

"He told me to fetch you as soon as you were awake."

"I have to go then." Slate replied. "Don't do anything stupid. Dead people don't make for good companionship." Slate walked off as quickly as their short legs would allow. Irving's study wasn't too far off, but it was almost midday. They tried not to be irritated at Jowan for not telling them sooner, after all he did have a very serious situation on his hands, but surely it could've waited an hour or so.

Slate reached the First Enchanter's study and opened the door, walking quickly into the room. "I'm sorry I'm late Irving, but I-" Slate stopped suddenly, realizing that they'd interrupted a conversation between Irving and Greagoir both of whom had turned to stare. Slate blushed furiously, frozen in place. They opened their mouth to apologize, shut it again. Just apologize, Slate thought furiously, just apologize and leave. They stared at Irving, horrified.

"Slate?" Irving asked, "was there something you needed?" Slate clamped their mouth shut, shook their head violently and turned to leave. "Wait a moment, Slate. I remember now, I asked for you to come here. My apologies. There's someone I want you to meet." Slate was rapidly turning purple. Irving had summoned them, of course he wanted something. They should have just mentioned that. "This is Duncan of the Grey Wardens." A tall, dark-skinned man stepped forwards and Slate bowed.

"Slate Lenever, pleased to meet you." This was more tolerable at least and none of the men seemed to have noticed Slate's complete social failure.

"I will speak with you later Greagoir," Irving said, rather smugly as the Templar stomped from the room. "This is the apprentice I was telling you about Duncan," Slate's face reddened slightly, they'd been talking about them. "Although I suppose she's really a mage now." Slate winced slightly. "How do you feel?" He asked them. Slate shrugged.

"Well I'm going to need some bigger robes," Slate replied, plastering on the most bland, innocuous, look they could manage. "But aside from _that_ , being forced to move to a different dorm and the crushing exhaustion, I'm doing excellently. I feel great." Slate's words were practically dripping sarcasm. Irving shot them a look.

"I can see I won't get much out of you today," Irving said sternly, "I was going to give you the day off anyway, but before you begin your lounging, if you wouldn't mind showing Duncan to his room." Slate knew it wasn't a request. They nodded.

"Of course, I would be honoured to help such a distinguished guest." Irving seemed satisfied. Slate turned to leave, before Irving stopped them.

"Have you by chance seen Jowan today?" Slate's blood ran cold. They turned to smile at Irving.

"Only when he told me you were looking for me, First Enchanter." Slate lied smoothly, hating themself as they said it. Irving nodded and Slate left, Duncan following after them.

The pair turned the corner and Slate glanced at Duncan curiously. There was something slightly different about him, but they couldn't quite place it. He wasn't like anyone they'd met before, Slate was sure of that.

"What are you doing in the tower?" Slate asked.

"I'm here to recruit mages for the king's army," Duncan paused, looked at Slate closely, "And Grey Wardens for that matter."

"So it's about the Blight then," Slate said softly. "Is that what Greagoir and Irving were speaking about?"

"It is,"

"Then the army isn't doing very well, is it?" Slate asked. Duncan gave Slate a hard look. They were uncomfortable with the attention; It felt as though Duncan could see straight through them.

"You know much more of this than I would've suspected," Slate half laughed.

"That's the extent of my knowledge, I'm afraid. I guess I do hear more than the other mages, working so closely with Irving and all." Slate shrugged, a little embarrassed. "This is your room though. Uh -I'll leave you alone now," Duncan smiled at them.

"Of course, thank you so much for your help. Good day," Slate left quickly, still feeling somewhat embarrassed. It wasn't an unusual feeling for them.

Slate was walking back to their dorm, thinking about the book they intended to spend most of the day reading. They were walking rather quickly, not wanting to waste this precious free time and so wrapped up in their thoughts that they walked straight into a Templar in full armour. Slate stumbled backwards and the Templar caught them. The Templar released Slate very quickly.

"S-sorry Slate! I didn't mean to grab you! I was just in a rush and I wasn't looking!" Slate looked up at the man. Slate could recognize Cullen anywhere. Even if he'd been wearing a helmet Slate would've known him from the stammering and apologies. None of the other Templars treated them that way.

"It's fine Cullen. I don't mind." They really didn't.

"I'm so glad to see you're all right, you know after the harrowing and everything. You took so long. I was so worried!"

"Were- were you there?" Slate asked uncomfortably.

"Yes, I was," he answered.

"Does- does that mean?" Slate couldn't finish the sentence. They both understood what Slate really wanted to ask: whether Cullen was the Templar assigned to kill them if they had failed.

"Well… yes," Cullen admitted, looking away. Slate was horrified.

"Could you really have done that to me?" Slate asked.

"I- I don't know. I suppose I would've had to." Cullen stared at the ceiling. There was a rather long, uncomfortable silence, neither looked at the other.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't have to make that choice." Slate said finally, quietly. Filled with relief and something like gratitude, they badly wanted to embrace Cullen, but he was wearing full armour and besides that, Slate wasn't sure how Cullen would feel about such contact. Slate took a step away instead, grabbing their arm behind their back. "So where were you going in such a hurry?" They asked lightly. Cullen looked startled.

"Maker, I'd almost completely forgotten. Greagoir has called for help. I'm not entirely sure, something about a possible blood mage trying to escape." Immediately, Slate's heart sank. They were positive that this had to be about Jowan. He had done something stupid then. "Come with me?" Cullen asked hopefully.

"Of course," Slate replied and then they were both jogging through the corridor, each filled with their own private worries. They arrived at the basement door in time to see Jowan and a woman Slate didn't recognize being backed into a corner by several Templars, including Greagoir. The woman was a chantry initiate, judging by her robes. Slate surmised that she must be the girl Jowan always talked about. Such affairs were forbidden of course. What had Jowan gotten himself into, Slate wondered. As they approached, Jowan caught sight of them.

"You told them!" He screamed.

The Templars turned to look and Jowan yanked a knife from his robes. He unflinchingly brought it across his upturned palm. He muttered an incantation as his blood sprayed the Templars. There was a sound like rolling thunder and everyone was thrown from their feet. Slate was tossed into the wall as easily as a child throws a doll.

Slate didn't move. When they regained their senses they were confused. Had they been unconscious, only stunned, they couldn't tell. Slate rolled away from the wall with a loud grunt. Their head was throbbing.

Irving was kneeling beside them. Slate's eyebrows drew together, then relaxed as a sharp pain flashed across their face.

"Are you alright?" He asked urgently, "You're bleeding!"

"I'm fine," Slate insisted, propping themself up. "Are you? You look like you're in pain." Irving grimaced

"I'm alright, a few bruised ribs I imagine. Nothing a quick healing won't fix." Irving stood, offering a hand to help Slate up. Slate ignored it and stood, holding the wall for support as their head spun. They felt nauseated.

"Where did he go?" Slate asked, groggily.

"Don't pretend you don't know." Greagoir's voice was harsh as he strode towards Slate. Slate leaned into the wall, trying to distance themself from the angry man as much as possible.

"I didn't know anything about this." Slate insisted. It wasn't entirely a lie after all.

"We know that isn't true." Greagoir snapped, "an apprentice overheard your conversation with the blood mage. You helped him didn't you?" Slate pressed themselves against the wall more closely.

"I knew he planned to escape, but I didn't know about the blood magic and I didn't think he'd ever hurt anyone." Slate protested.

"You hid this from me," Irving said calmly. "Then I'm afraid we have no choice. You were an accomplice to this crime." He looked older and sadder than Slate had ever seen him.

"I told him I wouldn't help him," Slate said desperately. "But how could I betray his trust like this? I didn't want to be involved."

"I believe you," Irving said, "but the facts must be faced. By letting this go unreported, you have assisted a blood mage in escaping the Circle and allowed harm to come to your protectors and peers."

"You will be executed as a traitor to the Circle," Greagoir snarled. Slate clenched their jaw.

"If this is the price I pay for my loyalty, so be it." They answered solemnly, anger tingeing their voice.

"We needn't act so hastily Greagoir!" Irving shouted. "There are other, more suitable punishments that may be worked out."

"And allow rebellion to fester within the Circle? I think not."

"Wait! Both of you!" Slate looked towards the door as Duncan strode in, exuding power and confidence. "There is another option. As you know I am also here recruiting not only for the army, but for the Grey Wardens as well. Let me take the girl." Slate forced themself not to correct the Warden.

"This is completely unacceptable," Greagoir shouted. "I won't allow it. That isn't a punishment at all. How can we reward this mage's behaviour this way? There will be a complete uprising next. Would you ask us to overlook that as well?" Slate stared at Greagoir. They had never seen him this out of control before.

"Slate, you will go with this Grey Warden then. This is a better fate than you could possibly hope for here."

"I don't want to go. This is my _home."_ Slate protested quietly. Leave this place that they were so accustomed to, to brave the unknown. It was unthinkable. "I can't go."

"You must," Irving said gently. "Bigger things await you than a life trapped in this tower. You will do great things Slate. I know you will."

" _I won't go,"_ Slate hissed. "I _refuse_ to." They were battling tears. The Tower had been more of a home than they had realized.

"You must," Irving repeated. "It is entirely probable that if you stay here Greagoir would have his way and you would be executed." Irving made eye-contact with Duncan. "The rite of conscription." Duncan nodded.

"I hereby invoke the right of conscription. From this day you are a Warden-Recruit. We are your family now." Irving squeezed Slate's shoulder before Duncan took them by the elbow, leading them away. Slate yanked their arm, but Duncan's grip was tight. Frantically Slate twisted, trying to ingrain this last view into their memory before it was lost forever. Slate was propelled out of the Tower, marched inexorably forward, locked out of everything they had come to know and even love. Slate would never forget the kindness they had come to find here.


	4. Some Kind of Peace

Slate stared into the campfire. They thought only of their lost home. It seemed unlikely to Slate that they would ever see Irving again, or Cullen, or even Jowan. Slate hugged their knees to their chest. They would probably never be allowed back into the Tower now. Their life, career, relationships, all ended before they'd even began. Their life was basically over. They hated Jowan for what he'd done. This was his fault and he'd cost them everything. It was Duncan's fault too of course, he'd been the one to conscript them. It would've been better to face the Circle's justice, even if it had meant death. Anything would have been better than this.

Slate saw Duncan approach the campfire. He looked like he was going to speak, so Slate got up. They pushed their way into their tent and threw themself down. The ground was hard enough that Slate almost immediately regretted it. They grumbled and shoved their pack under their head. It was uncomfortable, but better than no pillow at all.

Slate slept badly that night. Their tent and bedroll were meagre protection from the elements and the ground was hard and cold. They woke many times, sometimes from discomfort, but also from nightmares. The demon from their harrowing kept returning to haunt them. Slate would dream of leaning in to kiss a man, sometimes Cullen, sometimes not, but at the last moment, the man would reveal his true form, morphing into the demon before spitting acid into their face. It was a dream that would plague Slate for many months to come and it never failed to terrify them.

The morning dawned clear and cold. Slate reluctantly opened their eyes as someone called their name. Slate was confused. They were in an unfamiliar tent, frigid, dirty and sore. Birds chattered nearby. So they were out of the tower. Breathing rather heavily, Slate stuck their head out of the tent. Duncan was kneeling next to the fire, cooking something. Slate remembered. They gritted their teeth as they pulled their cloak more tightly around themself. It did little to keep out the chill.

"Good morning," Duncan called. Slate looked up; they left their tent without saying anything. Slate went to the edge of the campsite and stared across the plains to where they could see the peaks of Ostagar's towers. The last time Slate had been out of the Tower was when they had been picked up by the Templars. The Tower gardens were beautiful, but they were encircled by high walls. This new world that Slate was seeing, for what felt like the first time, was infinite. It was frightening in its expansiveness. The Tower was a confinement, but it was also a comfort. Slate wanted to go back.

Duncan packed the camp quickly and smothered the fire before loading their travelling supplies onto the single horse. He led the horse towards the road and Slate trailed after. Their feet were still sore from the day before.

"We must move more quickly than yesterday," Duncan called back to them. "At this rate the battle will be won or lost before we have even arrived at Ostagar." Slate gave them a hard look, marginally increasing their pace. They were already walking much faster than was comfortable.

Slate disliked long walks, they always had. In the Tower there had been virtually no need for such things. They had spent much time eating rich foods and lazing about. Slate was irritated, and rather amazed at how quickly they tired. They were out of shape. More than they had even thought possible and with every step they fell further and further behind Duncan, who was strong and lean, muscles like taut bowstrings. It was infuriating. Slate refused to ask Duncan to slow down. He would notice that they weren't keeping up, or Slate would be left alone in the wilderness. They didn't care which.

Duncan was well ahead of Slate before he seemed to notice that they were lagging behind. Slate was furious and limping heavily. They knew that they couldn't keep up with Duncan, but they had no intention of asking for his help. Duncan waited patiently for Slate to catch up to him, arms folded, head tilted. Slate reached Duncan and walked past him, glaring as they hobbled past.

"This clearly isn't working." Duncan said, walking very slowly so that Slate could keep pace.

"It's fine," Slate snapped.

"You can barely walk. We need to move faster and it is apparent that you cannot."

"Do you want me to _run_ after you?" Slate asked irritably. Their ankle was throbbing and they could feel blisters springing up.

"No, you can ride the horse." Duncan tried to hide his amusement, but Slate could tell. It grated.

"The horse is already carrying our things. Do you want to kill it?"

"I will carry some of the packs," Duncan replied, "the horse will be fine." Slate shrugged, looking away. They focused on keeping their expression neutral as they stared into the distance. Day two and Duncan already thought of them as weak. They could tell. Weak and silly. They turned to see Duncan had redistributed the baggage. As they were travelling fairly light, there _was_ actually room for Slate on the horse. They slid on the pack Duncan had left on the ground nearby. They patted the horse as they considered how to mount it the best way.

"Would you like some help?" Duncan asked. Slate shot him a look.

"I'm perfectly capable, thank you." Slate replied curtly. They decided the best way was probably also the simplest. Slate hiked up their robe with one hand and grabbed the pommel. It was a reach. The top of Slate's head didn't even clear the horse's back. They cursed under their breath before jamming their boot into the saddle's stirrup. It was lucky that they weren't set to Slate's height or they never would've been able to reach. They hauled themself into the saddle ungracefully. Slate didn't care how they looked; it was effective, though they weren't comfortable in the slightest. Their robes felt tight enough around their legs and hips that Slate was worried that they might rip. The saddle was also very hard, but it was a welcome reprieve on their feet. Duncan handed Slate the reigns. Slate was pleased at how much taller they felt, towering over Duncan this way. The pair walked on silently for a few minutes before Duncan interrupted.

"Is there something the matter with your leg?" Slate scowled at him. They'd _hoped_ Duncan wouldn't say anything.

"No." They replied shortly.

"A limp like that doesn't come without some kind of injury," Duncan insisted.

"Fine, childhood accident."

"What happened?" Slate weighed their dislike of Duncan over his apparent interest and their love of storytelling. They decided that civility couldn't hurt. After all, they would be travelling together to Ostagar for a few days and probably for quite some time after that.

"It's not much of a story, really." Slate began, glancing over. "A friend and I were playing. We were dancing around in circles and when we got dizzy we fell down. She fell on me." Slate checked to see if Duncan was still listening, he was, attentively even. "And well, none of the mages around believed that I was seriously injured. That was before I was apprenticed to anyone, so I didn't really have an adult to tell. They gave me a crutch and told me I'd be fine. I'm sure they began to wonder after I used it for more than a month, but no one said anything so I never received any healing. It took me a long time to walk on my ankle again, but I did and now it only really bothers me when the weather is strange or if I walk too fast or for too long. It's fine really. It rarely bothers me."

Duncan considered this for a moment before nodding. "I hope it doesn't trouble you too much. There's still a darkspawn horde to battle," he smiled up at Slate. The look they returned was close to amicable.

They walked on, not speaking much. It was difficult to pretend that they weren't marching into a battle. Slate found it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

When they set up camp that night, Duncan showed Slate how to pitch a tent, something Slate had never had the opportunity to do before. After Slate and Duncan had gathered firewood, Duncan motioned for Slate to approach the pile of kindling.

"Making a fire is a necessary survival skill. It is difficult and requires practice. It also requires a striker." Duncan trailed off, searching through his pack.

"So you mean I can't simply-" Duncan looked up as Slate gestured towards the wood. It burst into flame and Duncan raised both eyebrows.

"Where were you yesterday?" Slate merely shrugged. Stealing someone from their home and destroying their life doesn't usually make people inclined to help you, Slate thought, but they didn't want to say that, so they just shrugged. It was the beginning of some sort of peace between them.


	5. Cailan

It was late afternoon when Duncan and Slate finally reached Ostagar. Slate had insisted on walking for the day which had delayed their arrival further, but they had thought it would be embarrassing to ride in like a king as Duncan walked. They had no intention of explaining that to Duncan, although Slate suspected that he had guessed as much. He had made no comment.

After the watch had let them in, they were greeted by an tall, attractive man. Slate could feel themself going pink just looking at him. Everything about him was gold, his long hair, his armour. Slate couldn't imagine a sum of money enough to pay for gold-plated armour.

"Ho there, Duncan!" The man's voice was like warm honey.

"King Cailan-" Duncan sounded surprised. "I didn't expect-" Slate's eyes turned huge and their face grew even paler. _The king_ , Slate had never expected him to be so attractive.

"A royal welcome?" Cailan sounded amused. Slate tried to arrange their expression into something more neutral, rather than the sappy doe-eyed face they knew they'd be making. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun."

"Of course not, your majesty. We had some… delays, nothing serious of course." Slate hoped he wouldn't elaborate. They knew they were the source of all of them.

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious." He shook his hair out of his face like a lion tossing its mane.

Slate knew that Duncan, as a Grey Warden, was held in high regard, but to be respected by even the king was something they hadn't considered. Slate tried not to think about how rude they'd been. Slate continued staring at their feet, hoping that the king would somehow wander off without seeing them.

"The other Wardens told me you'd found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?"

"Allow me to introduce you, your majesty."

"There's no need to be so formal Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together after all." Slate stared more firmly at the grass beneath them, clenching their jaw. They felt full of electricity; one spark, a word from the king perhaps, and they would explode. Slate was terrified. "Ho there friend. Might I know your name?"

Slate couldn't breathe. Had the king actually just called them friend? The muscle in Slate's jaw twitched. Their heart was pounding so loud it drowned almost everything else out. They repeated their name over mentally with increasing desperation. _Slate, your majesty. Slate, your majesty. Slate your majesty. Slate, your majesty. Slate your majesty._ Slate couldn't look at him, couldn't speak. The words would not come.

"Is anything the matter?" Cailan asked kindly. Slate wanted to die. They shook their head, still staring at the ground.

"She's just shy, I think." Duncan interjected. Slate managed to exhale.

"Slate, your majesty," Slate wondered if that had even made sense. "My name is Slate." Their voice was barely a squeak. They hesitantly looked up at him, blue eyes huge.

"She speaks!" Slate's face burned, embarrassed by themself and that Cailan believed them female.

"Yes sir," they answered quietly. They hoped that the full force of his attention would soon be elsewhere.

"And where are you from, Slate Who Speaks?" His tone was light and airy. So casual for a king.

"From the Circle of Magi," Slate mumbled, dropping their gaze again. Cailan cupped Slate's face tipping it back up. Slate couldn't breathe again. They focused on Cailan's gauntlet strap scraping their skin. Cailan put his other hand on Slate's shoulder. His hand was _very_ heavy. His eyes were as golden as the rest of him, his gaze intense. His power was callously held, but undeniable, thrown about as a child tosses a toy.

"I am only a man, Slate. No more or less than any other here. You needn't be so concerned." He was still smiling. Slate wanted to disappear. They were positive that their face had melted back into its previous, stupid, over-sentimental expression.

"Of- of course," Slate could feel a smile beginning. Their voice was unsteady. "I'll do my best." The king released them.

"That's all I could hope for." He clapped Slate on the back with enough force that they stumbled forwards. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks." He turned to Duncan, "Have you any news before I go?"

"Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week." The king laughed.

"Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different." Slate wondered if the Blight wasn't as serious as Duncan had made it seem.

"Your majesty," Duncan began in a disapproving tone, "I'm not certain that the Blight can be ended quite so," he chose his words with care, "quickly, as you might wish."

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight," Cailan shrugged off Duncan's words. "There are plenty of Darkspawn on the field, but alas, we see no sign of an archdemon." From the way he stared piercingly into the horizon, Slate wondered if the king would consider that a favourable outcome. Duncan evidently shared their thoughts.

"Disappointed, your majesty?" His tone was exceedingly dry.

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales," Cailan's voice was whimsical, "A king riding to war with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god." With that kind of phrasing, Slate thought, you could make almost anything sound romantic and exciting. Slate was almost glad now that they would be here to witness the king's inevitable triumph. Cailan shrugged, "but I suppose this will have to do." He took a few steps back towards the camp. "I must go, however. If I'm not careful, Loghain will be sending out a search party for me. Farewell, Grey Wardens." King Cailan turned to leave as both Wardens bowed and his guards followed him away.

"So," Slate said, after they'd watched the man go, "that's King Cailan." Slate hoped that they'd have more opportunities to speak in the future.

"Yes," Duncan said, looking at Slate and evidently amused, "he does tend to have that effect on people." Slate turned to look at him. They'd almost forgotten Duncan. Slate was trying to supress a smile.

"I'm not even sure that you need me, if the Blight is really going that well," Slate said.

"Yes," Duncan said slowly, "It is true that the king's army has won several battles, but the darkspawn horde grows larger each day. By now, they look to outnumber us." Slate's grin disappeared, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of their stomach. Duncan gestured towards camp and they began walking. "I know there is an archdemon behind this." He said firmly. "But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

"Well, you could," Slate said, "But whether or not he would listen to you is rather unclear. He doesn't seem to take this very seriously."

"He is the king," Duncan said, facing Slate, "It is his duty to appear confident, to assure his subjects that all is not lost. And, if we had not had this conversation, you also would have believed the Blight almost ended and victory certain. He is good at what he does." Slate nodded, biting the inside of their cheek, of course he was only projecting, they should've seen that. "Now that we have arrived in Ostagar, we should begin the joining immediately."

"The joining?" Slate asked. They hadn't heard of it before.

"You will learn more of it later. For now, there is another Grey Warden in camp by the name of Alistair. After we have finished, go and speak to him, tell him that it is time to gather the recruits and then come report back to me."

"Immediately?" Slate asked mournfully. They'd been hoping for a meal, or a quick nap. They _had_ been walking all day. Duncan chuckled warmly.

"Eat, rest, of course. We have until nightfall to begin the ritual, although some preparation is needed. If you need me, I will be at the Grey Warden's tent. I must go. I have business to attend to."

"Of course," Slate replied, bowing. Duncan walked off, leaving Slate with their thoughts. Only one tent for the Wardens, Slate thought uneasily. They'd known that there were very few female Wardens, and they didn't consider themself even remotely female, but sharing a tent with a group of men was a worrying prospect. Slate resolved to speak to Duncan about it later. They thought, grimly, that they were sure to have an interesting day.


	6. Alistair

After awkwardly wandering around the camp for several minutes, Slate was beginning to resent Duncan for leaving them alone. They didn't know what this Alistair person was supposed to look like, or even how they were supposed to find them. The camp was much bigger than Slate had anticipated. They weren't even really sure where the Grey Warden's tent was. They were walking along the edge of camp, hoping for some clue when they heard sounds of an argument nearby. Slate told themself that it wasn't really eavesdropping if they didn't know the people arguing and wandered over, remaining out of sight.

"…Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?" Now Slate was really interested. So Duncan had been right, there were other mages here.

"I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage, she desires your presence." So that man was a Warden. He had the same, slightly strange feeling about him as Duncan did. It was something Slate couldn't quite put their finger on, something just off.

"What her reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me!" The mage snapped. "I am busy helping the Grey Wardens –by the king's orders I might add."

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" The Warden asked, all fake innocence and dripping sarcasm. Slate was thrilled. This was probably Alistair, they thought, and this was probably a conversation they'd get in trouble for overhearing. Slate stepped around the huge stone pillar they'd been leaning on.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message." Alistair glanced over at Slate, then back at the mage.

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"And here I thought we were getting along so well. I was going to name one of my children after you –the grumpy one." Slate cringed. He sounded like a two year old. They were embarrassed for him.

"Enough, I will speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool." The mage stalked off. Alistair smirked and turned to Slate.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." Slate snorted. "Wait, I don't believe we've met," Alistair continued unfazed. "You wouldn't happen to be another mage?" His tone was grating. Alistair clearly wasn't a fan. Slate raised both eyebrows and put their hands on their hips.

"Freshly stolen from the Circle." The look on Alistair's face was _quite_ amusing.

"Oh- uh well –you know… you don't really l-look like a mage?".

"What does that mean?" They asked, feigning anger.

"I- I just wouldn't have known from looking at you," Alistair offered.

"So you mean my robes didn't give it away?" Alistair hid his face in his hand. He was turning red. Slate decided to let him live.

"I- uh- what I meant was-"

"It's fine," Slate interjected sincerely.

"Fine?"

"Relax, I'm teasing you." Slate smiled at him.

"Oh- uh right- of course, sorry." He seemed flustered. Slate felt a little bad.

"It's fine," Slate repeated, laughing slightly. "You must be Alistair." He nodded.

"And you must be Duncan's new recruit. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the joining." Slate looked at him suspiciously. The joining again. It had occurred to Slate that this 'joining' had the potential to be something extremely creepy and sexual. It certainly sounded that way to them.

"My name is Slate, by the way." They were a little put out that he hadn't asked.

"Oh right, that was the name. You know it just occurred to me that there have never been very many female Wardens. I wonder why that is?" Slate resisted the temptation to tell him that no female Wardens had arrived at Ostagar and that their numbers were as few as ever. The comment did remind them of their mistrust of the joining, however.

"You want more female Warden's, eh?" Alistair looked at Slate, understanding the insinuation and looking mildly horrified.

"Maker's breath, now she thinks I'm some kind of pervert." Slate laughed outright, feeling better.

"I can see that travelling with you is going to be fun. For me at least." Slate was grinning broadly. It was all too easy. Alistair groaned.

"Let's just go find Duncan, shall we?" Alistair walked off, Slate trailing after him.

Duncan was standing by a huge fire with two other men. Slate immediately disliked the taller, dark haired one. He should've been their type, but there was something slimy about him, Slate thought, possibly his expression, but they felt it was something more. The other man looked friendly enough though.

"Alistair, Slate you took your time."

"Sorry Duncan, we were looking for the other recruits. But uh you found them first, which is probably why we couldn't find them… actually." Alistair trailed off. Slate wondered if he was always so awkward.

"Never mind that now. We must begin preparations for the joining immediately. You four will go into to Korcari Wilds to retrieve vials of darkspawn blood for the ritual." Duncan began.

"We need to collect darkspawn blood?" Slate asked, alarmed, "why?"

"It will become apparent later. For now, you should not concern yourself."

"Rather difficult not to be concerned," Slate muttered. Duncan raised his eyebrows.

"But you must try." He turned to Alistair. "In the Wilds there exists an old ruined tower that once housed important Grey Warden documents. I ask you to retrieve them. They contain treaties that may be vital in the very near future."

"Of course," Alistair murmured.

"This sounds dangerous," the friendlier looking man ventured.

"If it wasn't dangerous, it wouldn't be much of a test, would it?" Alistair said glibly.

"If that's all we have to do it sounds simple enough," Slate said, hoping it would be as straightforward as it sounded.

"That is all. Do not linger in the Wilds. I will be here when you return." Slate nodded and took a deep breath. They turned to Alistair, waiting to follow his lead.

"Don't look at me." He said. "I'm only here to make sure you three don't end up dying before the joining." Slate batted their eyelashes at him. "Assisting, not leading." Alistair said firmly. " _I_ will follow _you."_

"Fine," Slate said, huffing loudly. "Let's go then."


	7. Into the Wilds

_AN: should pick up a bit within the next few chapters sorry I always get bored of the stuff around Ostagar and lots of it doesn't leave much room for interpretation_

Slate stepped through the gates and out of the camp. They took a deep breath, still savouring the freedom. It occurred to them that they could run now, lose Alistair in the Wilds. Daveth and Jory had no real reason to stop them. Slate chewed on the inside of their cheek. They had nowhere to go, they reminded themself. It was better to stay with the Wardens.

"Let's go then." They muttered.

"The ruined tower is probably somewhere over there," Alistair said, gesturing vaguely to the left. Slate turned to give him an exasperated look. So much for not leading. They didn't care though.

"Fine," they said, sighing loudly. Slate changed course and began trudging through the long grass. They hadn't wanted to start by walking up a hill. "How exactly are we supposed to find the darkspawn?" Slate asked.

"Trust me, they'll find us. It's not going to be a problem." Alistair answered. Slate didn't reply. They were sick of people telling them not to worry, asking for their trust. They kept walking, ignoring Daveth and Jory's muted chatter. The Wilds extended for huge distances in every direction Slate could see. They were still amazed by the openness of everything. The sky was filled with eerie yellowish clouds that blocked out the sun. Slate had heard rumours that the sun never shone in a Blight, that lands infested with darkspawn were always dark. So far the rumours were turning out to be correct. It was unnerving.

The party reached the crest of the hill. Slate inhaled sharply. They sucked in another breath, trying to make sense of the scene before them.

The path was littered with bodies. Most of them were hardly recognizable as human. Viscera and limbs were often far removed from any body that they could've belonged to. The ground was soaked in blood.

Somebody swore as the group walked towards the carnage. Behind the wagons that partially obscured the path, something was moving. Alistair drew his sword and Daveth and Jory followed suit. Slate took a breath, focusing on tapping into the core of their power. It was difficult. The slaughter had left a foul smell in the air that threatened to suffocate them. Slate struggled to breathe without noticing the smell. They wanted to throw up.

"H-help," Alistair who had taken point again, immediately sheathed his sword.

"You're not half as dead as you look, are you?" Slate looked at him incredulously, now hardly seemed the time. The man continued crawling towards them.

"Please… I have to… return to camp… they need to know." The words were punctuated by short gasps. The man clutched his chest, dragging himself forwards with his free arm.

"Can you do anything for him?" Alistair asked Slate calmly.

"I do battle magic mostly," Slate was frustrated, "I know only a little healing, and nothing like what it would take to save him. We should take him back." They turned to Alistair and lowered their voice, "he won't make it like this."

"Just patch… me up." The man insisted, as his face contorted in pain.

"It's not far," Daveth said. "I can still see the gates." Slate knelt so they were on eyelevel with the man. They could feel blood seeping through their robe. Slate swallowed hard. They hoped their task for Duncan would be over very quickly and that they could change soon.

"I can help with the pain, I think, but I don't know if any healing I might do would affect what the proper camp healers have to work with, so I can't do much." Slate hoped he understood. They tried not to look at him as they placed their hand on his forehead. Slate cringed. It was damp and sticky with blood and sweat. Physical contact wasn't necessary for a healing, but it did strengthen the effect. Slate closed their eyes and reached upwards drawing the magic into themself, channelling it into the man. Dimly, they were aware that the man was speaking. To them or to another member of their party, Slate didn't know. They were completely focused on controlling the magic. Too much and they'd stop his heart, not enough and he wouldn't make it back to camp. Slate was sweating profusely.

"… the new supply wagons… attacked by darkspawn. They caught us by surprise. I'm… I'm the only one left…" Slate broke the contact and leaned on their leg, gasping for breath.

"That's all I can do." They wheezed as the man sat back.

"Thank you," he said, surprised, "I can hardly feel it anymore."

"Hold on," Alistair said. "You may not feel it, but you are still bleeding. Let me bandage you up first so you don't die of blood loss on the way. That'd be a shame after Slate healed you so nicely." Slate looked over their shoulder to smile weakly at Alistair. Alistair knelt beside them as he fished his bandages out of his pack. Slate stood using Alistair's shoulder for leverage. They stepped back as Alistair wrapped the man's chest and arm. The man was fidgety, impatient to leave. As soon as Alistair had finished, the man stood.

"Thank you." He said sincerely and hobbled off towards camp.

"I guess we should keep moving," Slate muttered and led the party forwards, past the overturned wagons and out of the carnage.

"Why? So we can walk into another darkspawn trap? This is madness!" Jory's voice was tight. He was shaking badly.

"We won't walk into a trap," Alistair assured him, "that's why I'm here. Grey Wardens have the ability to sense darkspawn. So we might all be mobbed and murdered, but don't worry, we'll at least see it coming." He smiled at Jory.

"That- that is not reassuring," Jory mumbled, looking down. As he turned away, Slate heard Alistair mutter that it wasn't supposed to be.

"Nobody _gets_ you. Do they Alistair?" Slate said sarcastically.

"They don't." He replied, pretending to mope, "it's really very lonely you know." Slate laughed.

They walked on without speaking for some time. The Wilds were not very pleasant to look at. Everything was grey and brown and withered. Slate was getting bored. They'd seen no sign of any darkspawn yet and the day was wearing on. They wondered if they could do the ritual without the blood. What would Duncan say if they couldn't find it? Slate didn't want to think about it. They were about to ask Alistair whether there were any darkspawn in the Wilds at all, when he stopped dead. Jory almost walked into him.

"Hey! What-" Alistair cut the air with his hand. Jory fell silent. Everyone gathered around Alistair.

"There's darkspawn close," he said softly. "Ready your weapons. Stay alert."

"Ok, Jory you take point. Alistair, you're on his right, Daveth his left." Slate said quietly. They would've asked Alistair for orders, but it was clear he did not want to give them.

"Wait why do I have to be in front?" Jory whined. "You've been there the whole time." Slate rolled their eyes.

"I'm a _mage,"_ they said, "I need time to cast my spells and I would be hacked to pieces in front because in addition to being slow, I am also _not wearing armour._ You're in front because your armour is heaviest, so when the darkspawn pop out of the bushes, if they do surprise us, _you_ can probably take a couple of hits without being killed."

"I'm wearing good armour too," Alistair grumbled. Slate glared at him.

"Yes, but you're following, not leading, remember?"

"Right,"

"Now, we should keep moving or the darkspawn will surprise us while we're all standing around arguing like children." Normally, they would've attempted to be more diplomatic, but they had no intention of dying in the name of compromise.

The party continued on in silence. Slate's stomach churned. It was eerie. The only noise was of armour clanking and cloth shifting. The birds had stopped twittering. It seemed that they could sense the wrongness as Alistair could. Slate bit their lip. They hadn't killed anything before. Their heart was pounding in their chest and Slate focused on remaining calm. They reminded themself that it was impossible to do magic without composure and focus.

Yelling. Alistair's shout. Slate's head snapped up. Monsters leapt towards them. The stench of rotting meat was overwhelming. Breathe, Slate thought, focus. They were covered in blood and gore, much of it dripping from gaping, screaming mouths. Slate's stomach twisted. Two of the things sprang up before them and Slate reacted instinctively. They clapped their hands together and then pushed out towards the darkspawn in one smooth motion. A cone of fire erupted from their hands and streamed over, but did not ignite the darkspawn. They howled in pain, but resumed the charge towards them. Slate stumbled back. They tripped, fell backwards. The impact jolted through their wrists. Slate stared, unable to move. The darkspawn closed in. Slate couldn't look away. A shining blade cut through the air, severing the head of one of the darkspawn. The body crumpled.

The other darkspawn was too close. It reached for Slate. They fumbled desperately in their robes. The darkspawn's face was inches away. It's jaws opened, its putrid breath choking Slate. They were pinned down. Slate's fingers found their object. Slate jabbed upwards, their dagger buried in the monster's stomach. They were sprayed with acidic blood. Slate stabbed again. The thing looked at the dagger, surprised. Slate was yelling, stabbing furiously. The darkspawn collapsed on top of them. Slate was forced back to the ground by its dead weight. They screamed, struggling to get out. Slate was shouting for help, for someone to get it off, begging senselessly. They couldn't breathe. They were trapped and they were going to die. They couldn't breathe.

Then they were free. Alistair had kicked the thing away. Slate rolled away from it, getting to their hands and knees before being sick. Alistair pretended not to see. Daveth and Jory both looked dazed. Bodies of darkspawn littered the path.

"Collect the blood," Alistair ordered them. The two men moved slowly, doing as he said. Slate had stopped throwing up. Alistair offered them a hand up. They took it and he helped them to their feet. He could feel Slate shaking. "Alright?" He asked. Slate nodded silently. Alistair squeezed their shoulder. "First time's always the worst," he said softly. "Go collect the blood now, quickly." Slate obeyed, moving with difficulty. Alistair waited until they'd all finished and gathered in front of him. "Nobody injured?" Daveth and Jory both mumbled no. Slate shook their head, staring at the ground. "Nobody swallowed any blood?" They all shook their head no. "Alright, let's go then. Jory, keep on point." They headed out and Alistair sighed quietly. At least this way he could pretend he wasn't leading. He didn't want to be. Alistair wondered if the recruits had ever had to work in groups before. He doubted it. He glanced back to see if Slate was keeping up.

They were walking slowly, but they weren't too far behind. Slate saw Alistair looking and gave him a rather forced smile. They picked up the pace a bit. Soon they were walking beside Alistair.

"The documents are close, right?" They asked.

"These pillars are actually the remnants of that tower. There should be a chest just over there." Slate nodded and kept walking. Their bones felt heavy. "Look, see it's just there," Alistair said, gesturing. Slate breathed a sigh of relief. Soon they could go back to camp. They wanted to sleep for a week.


End file.
